Like the Tendrils of a Dream

The moon is bright

Still hanging high

On the last threads

Of the fleeing night

There is a sorrowful cry

From a distant bird

Slowing spiralling

Into the heavens

The sky

Is blushing rose

And a morning mist

Sits heavy over all

Soon to melt and vanish

With the sun

The dew is touched

With the first gold

Of the day

As the darkness

Slips away

Beyond reach

Slender threads

Bleeding into the horizon

Like the tendrils

Of a dream

I feel that ache

That familiar pain

And like that lonely bird

I wish my memories

Of you

Ever sweet and bright

Would fade

And pass so easily

© Ann Bagnall 2015.